


Take the Pacific Coast Highway

by blainedarling



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Car Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 05:04:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3838159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blainedarling/pseuds/blainedarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe sucking Harry’s dick while they’re driving around in an open-topped convertible is a bad idea. Maybe that’s exactly why Zayn’s going to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take the Pacific Coast Highway

**Author's Note:**

> Because those photos of Harry driving around L.A. in his flashy car came out and honestly, if Zayn’s not blowing him in it, then what’s the point?

It’s ostentatious, that’s all.

Zayn says as much when Harry leads him to his car, Zayn’s carry-on bag slung over one shoulder, the other hand dragging his suitcase. The car is a spectacle in itself and, for fuck’s sake, Harry Styles is enough of one all by himself.

Harry pouts and pops the trunk to throw the bags in before running a delicate hand over the side of the car. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just jet-lagged and grumpy with it,” Harry whispers, arching his long back to lean down and peck a kiss to the side of his precious car.

Zayn rolls his eyes and gets in the car, even though he has half a mind to walk right back up to arrivals and hail a cab, just to spite him. But it’s been months. It’s been nearly two months since he last saw Harry and he hasn’t taken his eyes off of him since the moment he stepped out of baggage reclaim to an armful of man and curls tickling his nose–and he isn’t about to, either.

So he gets in the car and shrugs off the jacket that he’d definitely needed leaving London, overcast and miserable, but doesn’t here. L.A. is predictably humid and Zayn will feel much more comfortable when they get out of the parking complex into the fresh air; the sun nowhere near so bad as the humidity, he finds.

_At least he isn’t wearing one of his ostentatious hats, too,_  Zayn muses; Harry’s hair sat back over his head with sunglasses that he slips down onto his nose when they pull out of the complex into the open. He keeps that thought to himself, however. Insulting his car is one thing; insult his hats and he risks getting relegated to the sofa for the entirety of his stay.

It’s a very nice sofa, really. Zayn’s fucked Harry over the back of it more times than he can count. But he’d really rather fall asleep with a mouthful of Harry’s curls and wake up with drool drying on his bare chest. He grins at the thought.  _Like coming home._

Even though L.A. will never feel like home, not to him. Not in the way that Harry has sunk roots into the place, even his accent slipping into something that veers away from the Cheshire tongued lad that Zayn first met all those years ago in the time he spends here. Harry had been pestering him about visiting since their break started, pointing out that Zayn had a pretty open schedule now and  _really_  he could afford to take a week or two away from redecorating his house and accepting awards to come see his favourite person in the world.

Zayn told Harry that his mum had seen quite a lot of him recently, actually, before finally consenting because even a Harry Styles pout over Skype is a Harry Styles pout that Zayn cannot resist.

“You’ve got that face on,” Harry comments as they turn out of LAX and head onto the road.

Zayn scratches a hand over his bearded jawline. “‘fraid it’s the one I was born with, Haz.”

Harry huffs out a laugh and tries for a stern glare, but fails miserably. Harry is as excited to see Zayn again as Zayn is to see Harry. Zayn can see how his hand won’t stop twitching against his thigh, the fingers off his other hand curling and uncurling around the steering wheel.

“No, not–  _That_  one. The sour-faced puss look.”

Zayn sighs and rubs his thumb over the side of the convertible. “It’s not got a roof. It’s weird.” He scrunches up his nose.

“Seriously?” Harry shoots him an incredulous stare. “You’re grumbling because of the  _car?_ Is it ruining your badboy image, Malik? Is that it?” His cheek dimples as he teases him.

“It’s just very.” Zayn gestures. “Open.”

“Exactly.” Harry gives a languid sigh and rolls his shoulders back. His light silk shirt ripples over his skin, falling open wider across his chest. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Under the open sky. The wind in your hair.”

Zayn rubs a hand over his bared scalp and grunts. “I can think of a few things that feel better.”

“Such as?”

“Such as my mouth on your cock.”

Harry’s grin curls wider, twisting up into a smirk. “So, that’s what this is about.” He shrugs. “Not as though you haven’t blown me while I’m driving before.”

“Those cars had roofs,” Zayn replies pointedly.

Harry pulls up at a stoplight and turns his head towards Zayn. “You mean to tell me that you’re going to let a silly thing like the lack of a roof stop you from sucking my dick until we get home? Even though you and I both know how you’ve been  _gagging_ for it for the past two months?”

Zayn flushes red. He knows exactly what Harry’s referring to–above and beyond all the phone calls and the late nights on FaceTime with spit between his fingertips and his legs spread. The one night in particular, a few too many drinks in, when Harry’s voicemail picked up Zayn’s drunken filth.

_Miss you, baby._

_Miss you so fucking much, I’m so hard for you, only you._

_Want your cock in my mouth._

_Want you stretching my jaw so wide it hurts._

_Want you stuffed so deep that my voice is hoarse for days._

_Want you, need you, fuck._

_Fuck my mouth, Haz, use me._

_Miss your cock in my mouth so bad._

_Miss you._

_Miss you, babe._

“Fuck off,” Zayn mumbles now, tugging at his beard for want of something to do with his hands.

Harry pulls away from the light and adjusts his jeans with one hand. The material practically welded to his skin, as usual, the thick length of his cock clear between his legs. “It’s okay, baby,” Harry coos, all teasing and slow. “I get it. Too open. People might see. Right, baby?”

Zayn grinds his teeth together. Harry knows what he’s doing. He knows how to rile Zayn up, how to push his buttons until he’ll do something that he knows is a bad idea just  _because._  Just because he likes to be the one to wipe that smug grin off Harry’s face.

He looks up ahead and sees the turn off for the Pacific Coast Highway. It’s hardly a direct route to Harry’s house, but it’ll do. “We’re taking a detour,” Zayn murmurs, clicking off his seatbelt and leaning across to nip at Harry’s shoulder with his teeth. “Turn off to the Highway.”

Harry lets out a shallow breath and does as Zayn says, while Zayn sinks to his knees on the floorspace of the passenger seat and leans across. It’s awkward doing this in a car at best of times, helped none by the appropriately ostentatious console between the seats. There’s a fucking cupholder digging into Zayn’s ribs and if they take a corner too fast he is likely to end up winded, but it all seems to disappear when Harry pops the button on his jeans for him and drags his zipper down.

Harry’s only half hard but Zayn groans all the same, the curve of his flushed cock against his palm everything that he’s been missing. He sinks his mouth down over the head, wants him fully hard before he gives him more. His hand rests idly at the base as he laps over the head, tonguing at the slit and sucking precum from the tip.

“Don’t fucking tease,” Harry hisses, his legs spreading as wide as they can confined in the tight material of his jeans. He jerks his hips up, trying to rub himself into Zayn’s palm but Zayn pushes him down with a hand to his thigh.

“Shut up,” Zayn mumbles and takes him deeper, relaxing his jaw as he swallows him down, Harry whining into his fist as his other hand clenches the steering wheel tightly.

Zayn can feel him pulsing against his tongue, the weight of him stretching his mouth wide to take him all in. The tip nudges the back of his throat and makes tears spring at the corners of his eyes, but it’s so good. So good that Zayn’s cock is straining against his sweats already and he has to press the heel of his palm down against it to stop himself from shooting his load right there and then.

It’s obscene, the sound Zayn’s mouth makes as he slides back up Harry’s cock and takes him deep again. Wet and loud–loud to Zayn, at least, over the distant sound of the car and ocean and whatever else. All he can hear is Harry’s erratic breathing and his mouth working over his cock as he slides in deeper.

Zayn pulls back so Harry’s cock slips out of his mouth, bumping wet against his lips. It’s a furious red now, precum beading at the tip until Zayn licks it away greedily. “Missed this so much,” he rasps out, his voice strained, before sinking back over him.

Harry’s hand scrabbles over his shaved head as he sinks down until his mouth hits the base, a frustrated whimper falling from his lips. “Fucking– Your fucking  _hair_ , I can’t even–” He’s struggling to get a grip, his hand eventually wrapping around the back of Zayn’s neck.

If Zayn didn’t have his mouth stuffed full of Harry’s cock, he’d probably snort. Maybe even tell Harry that his one, final reservation when he’d sat down at the barber’s, the buzz of the razor behind his ear, was that Harry would have nothing to tug on anymore. He’d always loved the feeling of Harry pulling his hair almost right out of his scalp in his desperation.

Zayn taps his fingers against Harry’s hip, knows there’s nowhere far for him to go when he has to focus on driving, too, but letting him know it’s okay. He wants it.  _Needs_  it. Harry’s hips thrust upwards into Zayn’s mouth; his moan comes out as little more than a vibration around Harry’s cock.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harry chants, his ass squeaking against the leather seats as he fucks into Zayn’s mouth.

Zayn doesn’t need to see Harry’s eyes behind the sunglasses to know his eyes will be blown black, Harry fighting to keep them open and focused on the road with Zayn’s mouth so present around his cock.

“Fuck, Zayn, gonna, gonna come, gonna, gonna,  _fuck_.”

Zayn hums and slips his hand around to the small of Harry’s back to hold him close to his mouth as he shoots into his throat, his cock throbbing through it. Harry’s loud and unabashed below him, turning the wheel fast as they pull into a driveway, the back of Zayn’s head thunking against it.

He doesn’t let up though, keeps pressing the broad expanse of his tongue to the underside of Harry’s cock. Harry’s panting is from oversensitivity, Zayn’s sure, but he feels so good, tastes so good. Zayn sort of wants to see if he can get Harry hard again without taking his mouth off of him.

The car jerks to a halt.

“You fucking asshole, get off,” Harry manages to breathe out with a laugh, pushing at Zayn’s head until he reluctantly pulls off.

Zayn licks his lips. They feel plump and swollen and there’s a string of saliva still hanging between his lips and the tip of Harry’s cock. He looks up and meets Harry’s eyes, exposed now that he’s pushed his sunglasses up onto his head again. “Missed you,” Zayn whispers, grinning as Harry softens, his eyes molten where he’s staring at him.

Harry leans over and kisses his cheek, so strikingly sweet after what they’d just done on the ride over. “So, have you been converted to my convertible?” Harry waggles his eyebrows.

Zayn shrugs. “Still think it’s ostentatious.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Harry turns off the engine and swings himself out of the driver’s seat onto Zayn’s lap, knees tight around his thighs. His cock is still hanging out and he’s not entirely soft either. “You sure about that?” Harry murmurs, sliding his arms around Zayn’s shoulders as he leans in to kiss him properly. He sucks on the swollen flesh of his lower lip and rolls his hips down against Zayn’s clothed hard on that’s tenting the front of his sweats.

“Pretty sure, yeah,” Zayn mumbles against his lips, slipping one hand down the back of Harry’s jeans to squeeze his ass against his palm.

Harry hums and sits back, playing with the strings of Zayn’s hoodie. He flickers his gaze up to Zayn’s, eyelashes fanning over blown pupils. “What about if I let you fuck me over the bonnet?” he asks innocently.

Come to think of it, Zayn fucking  _loves_  this car.


End file.
